


An ideal demon

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, References to Oscar Wilde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 14:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21321457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: The trouble with Lord Crowley's kindness was quite the same as with his courtship - it was subtle. Everybody knew that Aziraphale was an angel, not that Aziraphale had ever agreed with such compliments, but as it happened, Lord Crowley called him so for the first time and had been calling him that ever since. Of course everyone took it as a sign of Lord Crowley's infamous sense of humour, even Aziraphale, but among Aziraphale's countless friends only Lord Crowley was allowed to call him that. It had something to do with Lord Crowley's mockery being a reminder for Aziraphale to be humbler, or something equally ineffable.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Michael/Uriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 70





	An ideal demon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KannaOphelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/gifts).

> This is as much a "Good omens" fic, as it's a "An ideal husband" fic. I'm sorry to say that this is the story I'm most proud of, and I absolutely loved writing it.  
Also, since I'm finally proud of something I wrote (this too shall pass) I want to make it a thank-you gift to a remarkable, masterful, witty writer, and no, it's not because of smut, it's because I dare think I wrote something worthy of you.

"It's your turn, angel, to tell me a story," whispered Crowley one night, when everything around them was dark and warm and just begged to jump up and invent life.

"Gladly, my dear."

_ Dame Michael Fell had the reputation of an impeccably noble and honest politician _. She came from humble beginnings and hard-worked her way into the Parliament, knighthood, money and influence and never ever, as far as anyone was concerned, had found herself in a compromised position. Nobody had enough imagination to even think that Dame Michael Fell could be compromised, could have committed anything but an act of utmost kindness. She was everything her best friend Lord Crowley had never been, to the chagrin of his aristocratic mother, the former prime-minister and the woman of divine presence, grace and character. Lord Crowley, her only son and heir, was nothing but the biggest disappointment of her life, and her dearest, most beloved, most cherished success, although Lord Crowley didn't need to know it. Such proclamations were reserved for Lady Elishem's diary and an occasional acquaintance on their deathbed. How Lord Crowley became such a close friend of Dame Michael was the source of much gossip. Lady Elishem, on the other hand, clearly understood that Lord Crowley had been having eyes for Dame Michael's bookish, soft brother Aziraphale and the friendship with Dame Michael was an unexpected result of a disastrous failure that was Lord Crowley's courtship. The courtship itself, although indeed spectacular and practically perfect in every way, was so subtle that nobody but Lady Elishem recognised it as such. Even Aziraphale didn't recognise it as such, and he was a very clever man. Aziraphale lacked ambition and passion of his sister, and he was a renowned hedonist, which along with his dandelion-white hair, bright blue eyes, kind and intelligent face and an air of pure, angelic joy, made him an invaluable guest at any respectable house in London. Aziraphale always knew which wine to choose, which dessert to serve, which cutlery to buy, and therefore Aziraphale managed to be a dear downstairs as much as upstairs. Everyone loved Aziraphale, and Aziraphale loved everybody, which by definition included Lord Crowley, but Lord Crowley longed to be the most beloved one. He was ready to take the second place, right after crepes. He was a generous soul actually.

The trouble with Lord Crowley's kindness was quite the same as with his courtship - it was subtle. Everybody knew that Aziraphale was an angel, not that Aziraphale had ever agreed with such compliments, but as it happened, Lord Crowley called him so for the first time and had been calling him that ever since. Of course everyone took it as a sign of Lord Crowley's infamous sense of humour, even Aziraphale, but among Aziraphale's countless friends only Lord Crowley was allowed to call him that. It had something to do with Lord Crowley's mockery being a reminder for Aziraphale to be humbler, or something equally ineffable. 

Meanwhile Lord Crowley, unbeknownst to everyone, was a patron of several orphanages, took each bastard child his less than pleasant friends sired under his protection, sponsored several campaigns aimed to restrict the use of the child labour and visited his charges so often, that he had to invent a properly debauched legend for each of his many absences from the society. After all, Dame Michael and her dearest wife, Lady Uriel, loved him for his easy-going, devil-may-care attitude and the thought of Crowley being lauded as an archangel, mind you, in some houses was just as alien to anyone's imagination as the idea of Dame Michael being involved in some shady dealings. Thus no one, including Dame Michael, Lady Uriel and Aziraphale, had a clue that Lord Crowley's library could rival the royal one. He didn't read, not ever, no siree, he had so much debauchery to be involved in, it simply didn't leave him any time to read. No one knew that Lord Crowley had the best, the greenest, the most luxurious orangerie in his London house, and the garden to put Eden to shame in his country estate. And if an occasional overflowing fruit basket arrived for Dame Michael and her family, oh, Lord Crowley's butler, Mrs Bentley was such a caring woman who had never even touched the blessed basket and could never have a chance to send it because Lord Crowley would gather the fruit himself and bring it to the doors of Dame Michael's house disguised as a servant of terrible reputation. Every farmer of Lord Crowley's had to swear on their mother's grave, heart, soul and well-being that no living, breathing creature including horses and newborn children would ever learn that Lord Crowley helped them with money, equipment and a pair of well-manicured but still quite capable hands whenever there was a need for help. 

In short, Lord Crowley was a charming, evil, witty man and may Lady Elishem help those who dared think otherwise. After all, Lady Elishem would complain about her good for nothing son on every possible occasion. Lady Uriel used to have her suspicions, since she had grown up with Lord Crowley, but she had to acknowledge that her friend's ways had irreparably changed, which by no means implied she loved him any less. He was the one to introduce her to Dame Michael and the rest was wedding bells and history. As per usual, Lord Crowley had been aiming for his own wedding bells, but... the luck of the devil, and he was definitely, certainly, most surely the devilest devil of them all and Satan couldn't hold a candle to him. Satan wept bitter tears, because Lord Crowley would never belong to him, yet every newly arrived London soul assured Satan that Lord Crowley would definitely end up in Hell. 

***

Mrs Bentley stood behind Lord Crowley and carefully listened to his argument with the mirror and Ms Beelzebub, the daughter of Mrs Bentley and Lord Crowley's valet.

"I can't wear gray, Ms Beelzebub!"

"You can and your will, your fucking lordship!"

Mrs Bentley just wanted to ask a simple question of whether Lord Crowley would want some dinner at night, after the party he had been preparing to attend.

"Gray? Me, in gray? I have a reputation to uphold, Ms Beelzebub."

"And you can't wear black all the time! Unless I have your permission to start murdering your friends and therefore give you the reason to dress mourningly."

"Is this the price of another black coat?"

"It bloody is, your fucking lordship!"

"Alright… but it wouldn't look well with my buttonhole!"

"Enough of green carnations! Here, take the red rose and be the handsome devil you are."

"Red rose?.. Peculiar… Ms Beelzebub, you are brilliant and I can't thank you enough. Can I have a black tie?"

"You most certainly cannot, Lord Crowley. But I picked you a dark gray tie to fit your light gray coat. And your trousers are still black!" 

"What about the vest?"

"Velvet, silver."

"I look dashing, do I not?" Asked Lord Crowley having put everything on with the invaluable help of Ms Beelzebub.

"Of course you fucking do."

Mrs Bentley saw the opportunity to ask her question, received an unintelligible answer of "Ngk" which usually implied exactly nothing, and took her leave.

"Now, Lord Crowley…" Ms Beelzebub looked at her master through the mirror.

"Yes, Ms Beelzebub?"

"Are you planning to dance?"

"Of course not! Dancing is for diligent seduction, and I always opt for something…"

"Non-existent, I know… I hear Aziraphale quite enjoys dancing."

"Everyone knows that. If you remember I tried."

"You didn't try! You looked at the assembly and remarked that such unskilled dancing in combination with such poor music should be punishable by death!"

"It should."

"Of course it should, your idiotic lordship! But it's not the way to ask someone for a dance!"

"I added that the only chance to improve the situation would be…"

"Yes, joining the dancers. To which Aziraphale replied that he wasn't ready to be punished by death, but agreed that the music was indeed quite terrible. You told me this story so many times, Lord Crowley, that repeating it should be punishable by death! I picked this suit for you and made you so unbelievably dashing so that your clothes do your bloody job!"

"Ms Beelzebub, mercy."

Ms Beelzebub let out a heavy sigh.

"It's never going to happen, is it, Lord Crowley?"

"I tried! Many times… I'm serious, Ms Beelzebub, mercy."

"You have no mercy for yourself, and I'm your valet, not your mother. Although in your case, I wouldn't blame you for turning to your valet for comfort."

"How very vile of you, Ms Beelzebub."

"One devil to another."

They smiled at each other, Ms Beelzebub sadly and Lord Crowley with unshakeable defiance and just a little bit of mischief. 

***

So as not to upset Dame Michael and Lady Uriel, Lord Crowley arrived on time, almost. He was among the last guests to be greeted by the happy couple, who chided him without much conviction for being late. Lord Crowley enjoyed their company, he really did, but behind them Aziraphale's head appeared, and Lord Crowley made an excuse and walked to the angel… To Aziraphale. 

The man pushed a flute of champagne into Crowley's hand and smiled.

"Fashionably late, my dear, as usual."

"Why, missed me, angel?"

"Oh, awfully. I was positively pining, my dear. You should have seen the state of me."

Lord Crowley looked at Aziraphale and gulped. Suddenly he remembered he had left his usual dark glasses back home, and tried covering his golden eyes with mismatched pupils with his hand.

"None of that, my dear. Let everyone see what a snake you are." Aziraphale laughed, Lord Crowley heard his heart break, but it was used to it, so he paid no attention to the shattering noise.

"I am not a snake, I am the snake. Temptation incarnate, as you once called me, angel."

"You brought me my favourite chocolates, what else was I supposed to say?"

"Thank you?"

"You are witty, my dear. I wouldn't have satisfied you with a "thank you". Now, what have you been up to?" Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's elbow and stirred him away from the crowd.

"Same old, same old, angel. Debauchery, sin, suchlike."

"Do tell me more, my dear."

"Oh, I don't want to scandalise you, angel."

"But that's what you do, Lord Crowley! You scandalise me."

"If you ask… Well, there was that marvelous party at my club, and angel, the champagne was to die for, so one of the men did collapse, and irritatingly early, barely past midnight."

(Read: on Monday I visited that orphanage in Oxford and spent the whole day playing hide-and-seek, and I didn't even hide, so that everyone could find me.)

"Then, the other day I was playing cards at Lord What's-his-name, and the host was cheating most shamelessly. I really had to cheat too, left the place a bit richer than entered."

(Read: on Tuesday I met with a few members of the Parliament who oppose the act forbidding child labour, and absolutely bribed them into oblivion, that is accepting the act.)

"Then I went to the botanical garden with a few friends and we stayed after the closing hour and got properly drunk."

(Read: I really don't know what else to say.)

"There was a naughty play I saw… the leading actor was absolutely delicious, and I stole a kiss."

(Read: I'm desperate, I'm redressing my own fantasies and could we please change the subject?)

"Just one, my dear?"

Lord Crowley was in panic.

"No, but I can't scandalise you too much."

"Oh, so how many were there?"

"Ten."

"My poor friend, it must have been terrible, if you counted. I'm so sorry for your time. And lips."

Lord Crowley finished his champagne.

"Oh, look, I'm out of champagne. Must find a waiter…"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and grabbed another flute for Crowley from a passing waiter.

"Oh, thank you, angel. You indulge me so."

"Now, there are two guests I want you to look at, my dear. They practically stink of trouble, and Michael is stressed enough with the child labour act."

(Lord Crowley managed to plan, implant and sponsor the legislature without Michael's knowledge. For all her goodness, she could be oblivious, but that must have been a family trait.)

"Look. Who are they?" Aziraphale pointed at two men across the room. One dashing, dark-skinned, overall stunning, and the other painfully serious, gray-haired man with a sour expression on his face.

"Oh damn… This is Lord Ligur, Michael's least favourite acquaintance, and with him is Mr Hastur. He is indeed dangerous… very… well, he is indeed evil."

Mr Hastur was one of the driving forces behind the opposition to the child labour act, and he and Crowley went a long way back on the issue.

"I wonder why Lord Ligur would keep such company."

"He's rich, influential. Lord Ligur likes people like that."

"Why doesn't he like you, my dear?"

"Oh, I'm just rich, no influence whatsoever. Look, I'm out of champagne again."

The party went on, full of praises for Michael and Uriel, delicious food, terrible dancing and a very poorly played Bach's concerto. In the middle of the musical torture Aziraphale whispered to Crowley, who sat next to him, that he'd be waiting for him in the orangerie, under a palm tree.

Crowley ran away as soon as Aziraphale disappeared, and found him in the orangerie.

"It's not a palm tree, angel. That's a bloody aloe vera."

"Looks like a palm to me. Care for some wine?" Aziraphale passed a bottle to Crowley.

"What, like that?"

"Oh, excuse me, I couldn't just grab two glasses. I thought the wine was more important, you know."

"Not complaining, angel."

"Yes, I can see that… So, where is the damned palm tree?"

"Over there, angel."

"How come you know such things? I thought you couldn't stand the nature."

"Nature has no place in an orangerie, angel. Here the humans are gods."

"How very blasphemous, my dear. I'm positively trembling with disapproval."

For a moment Lord Crowley was lost to the image of Aziraphale's trembling, sans disapproval.

"So, my dear… do you remember Michael's secretary?"

"Gabriel?"

"Oh, dear, I wouldn't expect such perfect memory from you… Anyway, he took on proposing to me each Tuesday, can you believe?"

Lord Crowley almost fainted. The world around grew darker and hellishly hopeless.

"But… you've been refusing him, right, angel?"

"But of course, my dear! That's why he keeps proposing."

"Why does he keep on proposing then?"

"Hopelessly in love, my dear. I could never expect to have inspired such devotion."

Lord Crowley considered it obnoxious that the whole world hadn't yet declared itself Aziraphale's domain, but he was partial, so he might have been wrong.

"Indeed, angel… does… do you…"

"Absolutely not. He's a sweet man, but a bit of a stickler, just the way Michael likes it. I prefer just a bit of mischief, you know."

"Do I? Just a bit, then?"

"Yes. Not like you. You, my dear, are the god of mischief."

"Is that so? Curious… Can we stop talking about Gabriel? I don't like sticklers."

"Don't I know it, my dear, don't I know it?"

They could always, ever since they had met, spend hours talking about nothing, this and that, books that Lord Crowley had absolutely not read, plays Lord Crowley had absolutely not seen, music Lord Crowley had absolutely not heard, so Aziraphale would tell him about it all, his eyes bright, his smile soft, Crowley's heart in pieces.

***

Mr Hastur managed to take Dame Michael away from the party.

"I've always wondered… to what do you owe your success, Dame Michael? You come from such humble beginnings, after all."

Michael was a bit tipsy, and as many genuinely good people, she trusted too easily.

"My wife's support, most of all. Luck. I like to think that the good always prevails…"

"Yes, yes, very sanctimonious." Hastur waved his hand dismissively. "I just wonder… Baron Lucifer mentioned you a lot, and was so proud of you, yet I would never think that you'd get along well with someone like Baron."

Michael was paler than marble.

"He was… a mentor of sorts," she managed.

"Of what sort? He was a brilliant stock broker, wasn't he? But even he wasn't so brilliant to be able to predict that the Parliament would pass the act forbidding slave labour on British plantations. How could he know it?.. Apparently, there was that young and ambitious secretary to the prime-minister, that sent the Baron a careless letter informing him of the final decision mere days before it was announced…" Hastur waved an envelope in the air and Michael tried seizing it. "Not so fast, Dame fucking Michael. You see, Baron Lucifer ended up richer than anyone could have imagined, and he generously shared his new fortune with you, didn't he? Next thing everyone knew you were a member of the Parliament, a Dame, and secured the hand and the heart of the virtuous young lady, the dark Lady of your ridiculous sonnets."

"What do you want?" Michael asked admitting defeat.

"I want you to oppose the child labour act. If you do, I'll return the letter to the sender. If you don't… well… I doubt the loss of your precious reputation means as much to you as it does to little Uriel. She can't stand a stain of doubt, and you are her ideal, innocent, pure wife… it's all about choices, Michael. You could have told the happy news to the Baron in person, but you were young and foolish, and nobody can escape their past. This is your reckoning, Michael, and I sincerely hope you make the right decision this time."

"Leave my house, now!" Michael growled.

"The house bought with money from a notorious stock broker? Does dear Uriel know the source of your wealth?"

"Leave, please…" Michael was begging.

"I will, of course. But unless you make the right choice, I'm afraid I will have to behave far less obligingly."

Hastur grinned and left.

That night, holding her wife, Michael seemed lost.

"What were you talking about with that Mr Hastur? The man is truly vile, not like Crowley, who wouldn't hurt a fly…" Uriel smiled fondly.

"You still love him, don't you?" Michael asked.

"What do you mean, still? I've always loved him! He was my best friend long before he was yours. Or Aziraphale's, for that matter. So, what were you talking about?"

"Child labour act."

"Oh darling… that idiot doesn't know you as well as I do. You are not going to switch sides because of Hastur's opinions, are you? He's known to use child labour, and you are as passionate about the cause as you are about me." Uriel laughed softly and kissed her wife.

"Of course I won't, my love, surely… just please…"

"What, darling?"

"Never stop loving me."

"I don't think I could, Michael. I'm yours, yours only."

***

Lord Crowley loved his sleep. He was famous for his sleeping capabilities. Lord Crowley woke up at dawn every day, but he had a reputation to uphold, so he always spent his morning hours reading and emerge from his bedroom properly hungover around noon. Ms Beelzebub would roll her eyes, smile fondly and share that precious knowledge with exactly no one.

Right now, though, Michael was knocking on the door of Crowley's bedroom and Crowley regretted ever allowing Michael to show up any time. She was Aziraphale's sister, she could do anything. 

"What do you want, Michael? I'm indecent…" Crowley made a very good impression of sleepy voice.

"I don't care about your dick, Anthony, we need to talk. I need to talk to you. Your valet is burning a hole in my head. Let me in!"

Crowley reminded himself of Aziraphale, of how much Michael had helped him, however unknowingly, through his heartbreak and got out of bed, hiding the book safely under his blanket.

Michael stormed into the room and sat on Crowley's bed.

"Right… Michael, what's wrong?" Crowley was genuinely concerned, and with Michael he didn't even have to hide it.

"Do you know Hastur?"

"Well, he's a… filthy little thing. I invested in his factories once. Then I learned he used child labour, so I stopped. Saw him yesterday… Why?"

"He's blackmailing me."

"Blackmailing you? How come? You are purer than an angel."

"Angel is my brother, Anthony."

"Well, that means you too are an angel."

"It means nothing. Listen…"

"Would you like something to drink? To eat?"

"No, nothing… just… just listen."

"I'm listening." Crowley sat next to Michael.

"So… when I was younger, I was working with the prime-minister…"

"I know."

"Just listen, Anthony! I was young, poor, ambitious and in love. Baron Lucifer befriended me. He seemed to have understood my struggles, my hopes… I trusted him."

"Well, that was very foolish of you, Michael. The man was a crook."

"Don't I know it now?.. He asked me for help. Asked me about the slave labour act. One evening I was finishing my work, and I saw a letter the prime-minister had written… in short, I informed the Baron that the act had been passed. A few days later he was rich as a king, and I was as rich as I could have ever wanted."

"Don't tell me you wrote to him." Crowley buried his fingers in his long red hair.

"I did."

"Michael, I love you, but you are an idiot! Does Uriel know?"

"You think she'd still sleep in my bed, had she known?" Michael smirked bitterly.

"Well… she loves you. She has always been the holier-than-thou type, but…"

"Don't you dare! For all I know she loves you and you used to love her!"

"Michael, I know it's difficult for you, but… for fuck's sake! How can you think so poorly of her?"

Michael looked up at Crowley and was reminded of her friend's noble nature. She couldn't blame Uriel if she loved him, but she knew Crowley didn't love Uriel as anything other than a friend. 

"I'm sorry… I don't know what to do."

"What does Hastur want? He was Lucifer's lover, you know."

"What?"

"He was. Tried to be mine… even I have standards."

"I won't tell a word to Aziraphale." Michael smirked. She seemed gloating, but it was better than being afraid, so Crowley accepted it as a win.

"Why should I care?.. Anyway, what does he want?"

"I have to oppose the child labour act."

Crowley looked too shocked to be able to keep up the illusion of not being aware of the issue. Michael was too distressed to notice it, though.

"Well… Look, no political cause is worth losing your spouse."

"How do you know he threatened me with this?" Michael was far too worried to be thinking clearly, so Crowley let it pass.

"Uriel is what you cherish most in the world. Unfortunately, she's a stubborn woman, and your ruin as a politician would mean losing her."

"I hate it how well you know me… but isn't it unfair? I wanted to do good, to change things for the better and…"

"Michael, where have you been? Life is never fair. Look at me. Good for nothing, spoiled aristocrat, rich and lazy. Is it fair?"

"Your mother is Lady Elishem. Of course it's fair!"

"Let me talk to Hastur."

"But…"

"Of course I'll be careful!"

***

"Ms Beelzebub! I need to look menacing and smart."

"Black it is then. I insist on the red rose, though. And the silver vest. And bordeau tie."

"Oh, do what you must!"

***

Hastur and Crowley met at the Ritz.

"So, Hastur, I hear you've been gravedigging."

"It's not gravedigging, if the body was buried alive, Crowley."

"It's Lord Crowley to you, Hastur. How can I help?"

"Give me your money back. You are a privileged bastard, Lord Crowley. What does it matter to you that some beggar's child works for their bread?"

"You're quite right. Let me consider it. How about you come by my house at nine this evening?"

"I could never resist a lord. Sure. I'll be there. Don't think you can trick me, Lord Crowley."

"Trick you? You are a formidable business man, I don't have the wit to trick you."

Crowley rushed to Michael's residence.

Lady Uriel greeted him and Crowley had no chance to see Aziraphale.

"Michael has been so tense." Uriel gave Crowley his cup of tea, disgustingly sweet and absolutely not to his liking. Only Aziraphale knew how he liked his tea, and Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen.

"Has she? Well, this act… it's a lot to stand up against, you know? You shouldn't blame her if she gives up. Not every battle can be won immediately."

"But it's Michael! She never shies away from a fight. That's why I love her so!"

"Oh, come on, Uriel! You love her because you love her. I sincerely hope you didn't marry for politics."

"It was a crucial part," replied Uriel coldly.

"Listen… I heard marriages can be messy. Ruined a few of those myself."

At that Uriel raised her eyebrow. She suspected Crowley would have never done such a thing.

"What? No human tradition stands between me and my pleasure."

"Of course, dear."

"I just… I wanted to tell you that whatever happens, you can always rely on me. You and Michael… You are precious to me, and I don't want to see either of you unhappy. So whatever you need, please, believe me, trust me, come to me for help. I'll never refuse you."

"My, Lord Crowley. What happened? You are so serious and well-meaning… I don't know what to think."

"Don't think, Uriel. Just know that I'm your friend, and I'll never leave you. Or your wife. I need to go."

Crowley ran to the front doors, tipping the servant generously and stuffing his hair under the top hat.

"Lord Crowley!" Aziraphale sounded so cheerful, and there was nothing in the world Crowley wanted to hear more than Aziraphale's voice. He'd like it very much if Aziraphale had been with him in bed when Michael knocked on his bedroom door. He'd love to know Aziraphale's opinion on the problem. He'd love to have Aziraphale all to himself to his dying day.

"Angel… good to see you. What have you been up to?" Crowley turned to Aziraphale with a practiced grin.

"Oh, such a lovely rose…" 

On pure instinct Crowley pulled his buttonhole and handed the flower to Aziraphale.

"My dear, you indulge me so! There's this exhibition, and I don't know what to think of the artist. How about we go there together tonight?"

"I'd love to form your opinion, angel. Pick you up at six?"

"Perfect, my dear. I knew I could rely on you."

"Angel, you can always rely on me, for anything," Crowley said with tender conviction.

"I sincerely hope so." Aziraphale appeared breathless, but Crowley was too smitten to be able to notice so he took his leave.

***

Once Lord Crowley left, it was announced that Mr Hastur wanted to pay his respects, and Uriel begrudgingly agreed. 

"Good day, my lady. Ravishing as always."

"Thank you, Mr Hastur. How may I help?" Uriel was so cool, Hastur had to shiver to please her.

"You see, lady Uriel, your wife… She seems to be adamant in her support of the child labour act. What's your opinion on it?" Hastur ignored his tea and was shamelessly eyeing his hostess.

"I think that it's what should have been done ages ago, Mr Hastur. I know you are of a different opinion, and I can only pity you. My wife is a woman of principle. Economics alone cannot persuade her."

"You rich people… you always think that principles are worth something." Hastur smirked. "Money is all there is. Money made your wife what she is today. Money got your wife into your tight pants."

"I don't like the way you allow yourself to talk to me."

"Sweetie, you are a whore. The only difference is that any whore would have sold themselves for good money, and you sold yourself for some vague illusions of virtue."

"You should leave, Mr Hastur." Uriel stood up, indignant and hurt.

"A whore like you… you'd take anyone to bed if they proclaim they believe your stupid version of the world. The world ruled by virtue or some other shit you rich assholes proclaim to believe in."

"Mr Hastur, leave, now."

"Why should I? This house was bought with the money your wife got from selling a governmental secret to a stock broker. Your wife fucked your pussy all wet and squirming with the promise of infallible virtue. You deserve better, Uriel. You deserve to know who fucks you."

"I cannot understand a word you are saying, Mr Hastur. If you don't leave, I'll call for help, and then you'll be removed from my house in a rather disgraceful manner."

"Look at it, pussycat." Hastur slid the envelope to Uriel. "Next time, sell your pussy more wisely."

Uriel ignored the envelope and rang the bell.

"Your wife made a very good deal with Baron Lucifer. You should have known better, slut."

Hastur took the envelope, pulled the letter out and waved it in front of Uriel's face. She gasped recognising her wife's handwriting and the name of the receiver.

Dame Michael entered the room just as the realisation dawned on her wife.

"What the fuck, Hastur?!" She yelled.

Uriel winced at the profanity but couldn't take her eyes off of the letter.

"You were taking too much time. People began to talk. For now, I've ruined your marriage. Keep on being the stubborn bitch, and I'll drag you through the dirt." Hastur looked putrid. Rotten, sinful, disgusting, relishing in the destruction he had caused.

"Leave!" Michael begged.

"Sure. Be smarter, Michael." Hastur took the letter, stuffed it back into the envelope and left.

"Is it true, Michael?" Uriel looked at her wife, tears in her beautiful eyes.

"Darling, let me explain…" Michael tried moving closer to her wife, but Uriel raised her hand forbidding Michael to get any closer.

"Is it true?" Uriel repeated.

"Let me explain…"

"There is no explanation for sin. For treason. It's not some innocent debauchery Crowley engages himself into…"

"Oh, right, Crowley again."

"He knows he's good for nothing. You made me believe you were noble, pure… Leave me, Michael."

"Darling…"

"Leave me! You broke my heart, my trust."

"And you idealised me! Made me a fucking angel! I'm a human being, Uriel, I've made mistakes. Not everyone is privileged enough to have what you had! And I love you."

"Go to hell, Michael." Uriel turned on her heels and left the room.

***

Aziraphale was waiting for Crowley. He had come an hour earlier, but Crowley would always come an hour earlier, and always with a pastry or a box of chocolates or a rare book or just with flowers, but the flowers had always been remarkable, just like everything Crowley did, and it included existing, breathing, sneezing, coughing, blushing and so forth. Instead of Crowley Aziraphale got a benchful of Uriel.

"Aziraphale, we need to talk." 

"I bet we do… you look… awful, Uriel, what happened?"

Aziraphale loved his sister-in-law. He loved everything and everyone including his sister-in-law, and he had plans involving nobody but Lord Crowley, and here he had a benchful of Uriel. 

"Michael… she's… she's not what she seems!"

Aziraphale looked at Uriel. He wondered how both Crowley and Uriel could be so different about their privilege. Crowley did his best to appear a spoiled bastard and Aziraphale never believed him, while Uriel was as righteous as Deuteronomy, but Aziraphale could never fully accept it.

"What, she's turned out to have committed treason or something?" 

Aziraphale really wanted Crowley. His easy flirt. His golden eyes. His clever hands. His buttonholes. His calm. His care. All of him. 

"Were you waiting for someone? Were you waiting for Crowley? You shouldn't trust him, Aziraphale? He's practically a demon!" Uriel looked scandalised. Aziraphale sighed. He was a good friend of Lady Elishem, and she had let a few things slip during his last visits.

"Good Lord, no way!" Aziraphale feigned horror.

"Doesn't matter. Michael… she sold a secret to Baron Lucifer!"

"And?" Asked Aziraphale.

"And?! She's not what we thought she was!" Uriel was breathing so heavily Aziraphale would have brought her water, but he was waiting for Crowley.

"I know. And?"

"You… you know? And… and…"

"Uriel, you were born rich. Michael and I were born poor, we had to compromise. I ran a bookshop to pay for her studies, she sold a secret to a crook."

"It's hardly the same, Aziraphale."

"To you, it is." 

Uriel blushed and lowered her eyes. 

"Doesn't matter! I thought she was ideal!"

"She is. She wanted to change the world for the better. She had to sell her soul on the way, but that's what she's been doing. Don't disappoint me, Uriel. You are head over heels in love with her, you can't just cast her out for something she did many years ago."

Uriel blushed some more.

"Oh dear, you did. Uriel, I'm cross with you!"

Aziraphale had it, that air about him. If he had been cross with someone, that someone had to be the sinner.

"But… but she lied to me!"

"She hid something you were unable to accept, and yes, it's disgusting and awful. Yet she loves you, and you love her, regardless of anything. Had you misstepped, you think she'd cast you out?"

Uriel looked so guilty Aziraphale had to console her.

"Listen… where would she go?"

"To Crowley," whispered Uriel. Aziraphale's heart made a complex movement, something akin to dancing and collapsing.

"Then go! Find her, tell her you love her. You do, don't you?"

"I do," wept Uriel.

"Then go. Crowley would help you, he always does, my darling… I mean, he always helps. That's what he does."

"Just don't tell him that," Uriel smiled through her tears.

"I'll tell him anything. I trust him. I trust Michael, and so should you."

***

When Lord Crowley returned to his house, he was told Mr Hastur had been waiting for him, so he told Mrs Bentley to take any other visitors to any other room, and walked into his study.

"Hastur! What an unexpected pleasure. I believe we agreed on a different hour."

"You can't trick me, Crowley." Hastur hissed.

"Lord Crowley," corrected Crowley.

"Whatever. I told that pussy her wife was a criminal. See, can't trick me."

"You are a bastard, but you know it already, don't you?"

Crowley checked his watch. He was late to join Aziraphale, and nothing could be worth it. 

"So… how about you give me your money, and we'll forget about this… inconvenience?" Hastur was grinning.

"My condition was you'd talk to me before you do anything else. It's void now. Show yourself out."

"Fucking idiot. See, here is a note that came for you… says, "Trust you, believe you, want to see you. Uriel." What say you?" Hastur showed Crowley the note. 

Crowley was fast, he managed to grab the note and toss it into the fire before Hastur could do anything.

"Fucker! She'd oppose the act, and her wife will leave her, and…"

Crowley casually pinned Hastur to the wall, right next to the fireplace.

"You were saying?" Crowley asked nonchalantly.

"I'll let everyone know that you bribed…" 

Hastur couldn't finish his sentence because Crowley punched him.

"Oi… a Lord is not supposed to behave like that," Hastur laughed.

"I'm not a proper lord," growled Crowley and punched him again. Hastur passed out, and Crowley called for Ms Beelzebub.

"Ms Beelzebub, would you please take Mr Hastur somewhere… safe? With bars and law enforcement? Maybe you could even convince someone to keep him locked up in the foreseeable future?"

"Of course, your lordship. My pleasure."

Ms Beelzebub called for two silent and obscenely strong servants and together they took care of Hastur just before another visitor was announced. Crowley sighed and went to his drawing room where Michael had been waiting.

"She told me to leave," said Michael and kept pacing. Crowley looked at his watch. His… date with Aziraphale had been missed, lost, and Aziraphale must have been angry. Crowley sighed. He'd stop time for Aziraphale, he'd do anything for Aziraphale, and here he was taking care of his sister.

"I see," said Crowley, as he indeed could see that. "Well, I punched Hastur and Ms Beelzebub is taking care of him now, so… he's out of the picture for a long time. Ms Beelzebub knows a detective inspector who... "

"It doesn't matter anymore. I've lost Uriel."

"No way. She's smitten with you." Crowley looked at his watch again. He could have been at the exhibition with Aziraphale, making stupid remarks, paradoxes and suchlike, and Aziraphale would have laughed, and Crowley would have dreamed of kissing him, and that would have been a torture, but sweeter than any crepe.

Mrs Bentley announced that Lady Uriel had arrived. Mrs Bentley couldn't imagine that Dame Michael's wife had to be taken to a separate room.

"Uriel?" Michael squinted. "Have a fun evening planned, just the two of you?"

"What? No! Michael…"

Uriel entered the room and abruptly stopped.

"I see now, Uriel. You were just looking for a pretext to get rid of me and catch up with an old friend…"

"Michael!" Yelled Uriel and Crowley together.

"Bet you were more careful," continued Michael, "and haven't written any letters Hastur could get a hold of."

Uriel looked at Crowley in panic, which didn't help the situation.

"Oh you did… God, that's unfair. I have to go down and lose everything and you two just wander off into the sunset! Sure, Aziraphale would approve. He has always said that love is right no matter what."

"Aziraphale?" Crowley grew angrier. "Aziraphale was waiting for me at the exhibition! Instead of going I had to take care of your marriage!"

"You? What do you know about marriage or love? You are a wicked thing, a damned snake."

Crowley growled. Uriel watched everything with horror in her eyes.

"Get out, Crowley!" Michael demanded. 

"This is my house, Michael," reminded Crowley.

"Right, and nobody comes to your house to remind you how it was bought! Nobody blackmails you. You've slept with half London, and nobody blackmails you."

Perhaps, thought Crowley, because I haven't slept with half London. Michael didn't need to know that and Aziraphale didn't seem to care after all. 

"Michael, dearest, you have to calm down, you will regret everything you are saying," said Uriel and tried approaching her wife.

"You… I loved you. Everything I did I did for you, to be worthy of you. You wouldn't look at me when I was poor."

"That's not true! I've loved you as long as I've known you, and I'm sorry for asking you to leave. I'm sorry for being so stubborn…"

"It doesn't matter anymore, Uriel. I will oppose the act tomorrow. I have nothing to lose."

"Why would you do that?" Crowley was shocked, mostly because he had spent a lot of time, money and effort buying the support of the opposition. "I told you, Hastur is out of the picture…"

Ms Beelzebub walked in and handed Crowley the envelope she had taken from Hastur on the way.

"Thank you, Ms Beelzebub. I'm proud of you." Crowley actually smiled. "Here, Michael. This is the letter Hastur used to blackmail you… take it!"

Michael didn't move.

"You… you really…"

Uriel used the moment to hold her wife.

"Yes, I really," mocked Crowley. He looked both angry and wretchedly sad. "You two are in love, happy, prosperous, and just a hint of trouble gets you all frustrated and lost. I'm going to bed. Please, leave my house. I'm furious." Lord Crowley called for Mrs Bentley and left the room. He felt disgusting. It was barely eight and he wasn't supposed to feel so tired, but he thought that he had disappointed Aziraphale, let him down, and the thought was enough to exhaust him. He fell on his bed and was fast asleep the next moment.

***

Crowley woke up in the afternoon and moaned after one look at the clock. Ms Beelzebub waited for him with his favourite black clothes and a pale orchid for buttonhole. Both were silent.

"I'm sure he'll understand," suggested Ms Beelzebub.

"He doesn't have to. I let him down."

"By saving his sister's arse and her marriage? Right. He will never forgive that."

"Aziraphale doesn't deserve all this mess. He deserves desserts, books, chocolates and exhibitions."

"Well then, go and fall on your knees begging for forgiveness."

"That's what I'm going to do."

***

Michael's butler was sorry to inform that their ladyships hadn't arisen yet, and Crowley looked at his watch. It was almost four, and his virtuous friends were behaving like Crowley in his many stories of his debauchery, and to think that it was Tuesday, not Saturday, and… Tuesday. Crowley's heart leapt and awkwardly landed somewhere around his pelvis, which according to numerous opinions had never been attached to the rest of Crowley's body and therefore Crowley had to saunter. 

He asked about Aziraphale. Aziraphale was having tea in the orangerie with Mr Gabriel, should the butler take his lordship there? His lordship nodded and sauntered more than usually, being only half-conscious. Mr Gabriel, crestfallen, was just leaving, and Crowley for once in his life allowed himself to gloat. Aziraphale noticed him and smiled so blindingly, so joyously that Crowley couldn't help but both cry and grin.

"My dear, how lovely to see you! I am of course very angry with you for leaving me alone to grasp with some modern art, so I do hope that you came to propose."

Crowley was still trying to understand how Aziraphale could be angry and happy to see him, so it took him a minute to realise what Aziraphale had said.

"Tea, my dear?" Aziraphale asked, his smile beatific and his eyes shiny. 

"Ehm… hm… Ngk… what? Tea? Yes, tea. Thank you."

"Just how you like, my dear, but you can't sit, I'm afraid, if you've come to propose." Aziraphale made a movement that suggested he was intending to make his prim and proper and dignified posture even more so, which was impossible, but he was an angel. 

"Propose… so… I take it Mr Gabriel..?" Lord Crowley slowly recovered about a third of his mental capabilities.

"Mr Gabriel always receives a blunt refusal, poor soul, that's why he keeps proposing. If not for me, than to put you both out of misery, could you get a wiggle on?"

"A what on?"

"Wiggle. Here. I'm ready, I'm listening." Aziraphale apparently demonstrated what a wiggle was meant to look like. Lord Crowley loved it. 

Slowly but steadily Lord Crowley knelt and once his bony knee hit the floor looked up at Aziraphale, scared and uncertain.

"You are doing so well, Lord Crowley. Please, do proceed."

"Ang… Angel… Aziraphale…" Crowley paused. 

"That's me, my sweet. Yes. Is there something you wanted to tell me?"

"Wi… will… you.. do me…" he paused again, never taking his eyes off of Aziraphale.

"Darling, as fetching as you are standing on your knees, I can't really enjoy the sight or its implications here. You must agree it's not private enough."

"Aziraphale… angel… I… will you do me the h…" Crowley briefly forgot how to breathe. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Crowley couldn't help but look down in guilt and shame.

A soft and tender hand touched his chin pulling Crowley's face up. "Should I say it for you? Or should I just answer?"

"A… an… answer." 

"Yes." Aziraphale leaned in and kissed Crowley's nose. "Yes, my darling."

Crowley would have fainted but Aziraphale caught him and pulled him up to his lap, all the while smiling and caressing Crowley's face.

"I'm… so sorry," said Crowley crying.

"Oh, but for what?"

"I… I couldn't… I… I'm an idiot!"

"I will have to agree, but only on the grounds of having to wait for so long. I really should have proposed myself, but you were pining so beautifully, my dear, that I decided to wait until my pining became unbearable. I love you dearly, my darling."

Crowley almost fainted again, so Aziraphale sat him down in an armchair and made him take a few sips of tea.

"Better, my love?.. I can see that you are feeling better. Now, about your sinful lifestyle…"

"Angel…"

"No, my dear, let me finish." Aziraphale knelt between Crowley's thighs and cupped his sharp face with his hands. "Would you please openly be that remarkable, generous, kind, sensitive person and stop pretending that you spend your nights the way you usually tell me about? Could you do that for me, my love? Because I know, I've always known who you are and what you do. Unlike my sister I'm very attentive. Also, your mother likes me and she has let some things slip, but it only confirmed what I had already known to be true. So, my one and only, will you be a boring good person for your boring soft husband?"

Crowley surged forward, fell over his own knees and right on Aziraphale, who received him with laughter and open arms, both of which Crowley immediately transformed into a longing moan and a tight embrace respectively when he kissed his angel's lips.

"Darling…" Aziraphale gently pushed Crowley back. "Darling, I have mentioned that it's not private enough here, haven't I? Don't tempt me, my love, I've been watching you for too long to be able to resist. I'm very bad at resisting temptations."

"Oh… oh… sorry… pardon me, angel, I…" Lord Crowley got up and helped Aziraphale back to his feet.

"Shh, nothing to be sorry about, Anthony. I love you so much, darling, I absolutely adore you."

"Angel… angel…"

Aziraphale held Lord Crowley and nuzzled his ear. "I'm here, I will always be here, with you and for you. My dear sisters are still working on their marriage and everything I know about yesterday evening I _ know from Ms Beelzebub who was kind and exasperated enough to tell me everything this morning. So, should we elope and have dinner at Savoy and you'll tell me everything?" _

"That's not fair, angel, you made me nice."

"It's just my imagination, darling, I know that you are decidedly not nice. Or soft. Or kind. Or just plain lovely."

"But really, angel, Oscar Wilde?"

"I don't see why not, my dear."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. To paraphrase Oscar, I'd love to see that you liked it as much as I did;)


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